


Happy Hunger Games

by chimneysmoke (recension)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recension/pseuds/chimneysmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Johanna/Finnick, phone calls after the quarter quell announcement"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Hunger Games

**Author's Note:**

> For the _Girl on Fire_ The Hunger Games LJ ficathon.
> 
> Original prompt: "johanna/finnick, phone calls after the quarter quell announcement"

If it was up to Johanna, she'd never have the television on but the Victor Village at District 7 gets lonely, quiet in the woods. She'd never admit it but filling the silence of her house with Capitol garbage gives her a burning sense of duty and purpose. It reminds her why her family is not there. It keeps her from drink. She clicks on the device, sees Katniss Everdeen's face and immediately switches it off again. She wants company but not at that price.

Katniss is a fun-house mirror version of herself and Johanna hates the reflection.

She rises to make herself a cup of tea, stilling as the phone begins to ring. Something about the ring always reminds her of the arena cannons. It's unsettling. She races across the room to make it stop, pulling the receiver to her cheek, "Hello?"

"Were you watching?" Finnick asks. She eye-rolls before tending to her tea, assuming his call is to discuss the wedding of the star-crossed virgin twats of District 12.

"I turned it off. As if Panem needs to see Katniss Everdeen in a white dress. She's already their driven-snow Queen," Johanna picks up her mug and cradles the receiver to her ear as she moves towards her bedroom.

"Johanna," he says, barely a whisper. It's the voice he uses when anyone talks of his District. It's the voice he uses when he talks about Annie. It's the voice he uses when he has bad news. Her blood freezes in her veins. Suddenly, she knows she's missed something vital but she'd rather hear it from him than the television anyway. 

"What is it, Finnick? You tell me right now."

"They announced the Quarter Quell," Finnick says, his voice stalling with trepidation. "The tributes are going to be victors this time." Her mind races, but it settles on two thoughts: She is the last living female victor of District 7, and if Finnick is chosen she'll have to kill him.

"Jo," he says, affectionately, and it makes her want to reach through the phone and strangle him. "I'm so sorry."

"When have I ever been in need of pity, Odair?" she snaps. "I'm over the moon. I legally get to kill Everdeen while the whole world watches."

The line goes silent for a minute. Before he offers, "I'll come to yours. I'll get on a train—"

She knows how sentimental he can be, but it hurts her to think he's doing this to say his goodbye. "Fin," she warns him. "Snow is doing this to fuck with her, you know that right? He's sending her to a room full of assassins and pretending he's blameless when the inevitable happens." Immediately she regrets her words. Their phone line must be tapped, and people have died for saying less. Her family died for less.

Finnick doesn't say anything but she knows he's thinking the same thing.

"What are they going to possibly do to me, Fin?" she finally asks. "District 7 needs a female tribute now. They can't kill me before they kill me." His silence is breaking her. He is no suave words, no flirtation. Not tonight. It's not comforting, and it's not the Finnick she likes. It's like he's asking her to fill the void she'll leave when she hasn't even left yet.

"Don't you dare mourn for me," she warns him. "You could get chosen too." She says it, but she doesn't mean it. If the Reap is rigged, like she's always thought, it's unlikely Capitol-favorite Finnick Odair will make it to the arena unless he volunteers.

"I could get chosen too," he repeats. "We could find some nightlock and eat it together. Throw them a twist."

That elicits a smile, at least, and she's grateful for it. "Spin our own tragic love story," she supplies.

"Give 'em a show," he speaks, sighing on the other end. "I should go."

"Fin," she stops him, hoping to keep him on the line for a little longer. "Happy Hunger Games," she says. It's code, it's their code, but she doesn't know if he'll remember it. 

It was on her victory tour, while her family was rounded up and killed behind her back and she feasted thousands of miles away. The night they met was a banquet in her honor in the Capitol. Finnick had sauntered up to her in the loud tittering crowd and clinked her glass with his. "Fuck the Capitol," he said cheerfully, without even introducing himself first. "Happy Hunger Games," he then spoke, the cadence of his words matching in both statements. She liked him instantly, more than for his eyes and his hair and the Adonis appearance that won over stupider and shallower hearts.

Three years later he takes a shallow breath before responding into the phone. "Happy Hunger Games," his voice full of venom in a way she had never heard it. _Fuck the Capitol._ "Goodnight Jo."

"Goodnight," she says softly, hearing the click of the hangup, grateful she'd heard it from him.


End file.
